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Apr 2018
I once knew a girl,
A girl who loved to write,
she'd write poems, books, anything.

She's loved to write,
soon though she realized she wasn't a good writer,
so she started writing in red.
Red ink on the page,
the page that was her wrist,
her thighs,
her stomach.

I miss the girl who wouldn't write in red.
Written by
April  20/F
(20/F)   
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